


Strange Affinities

by magisterpavus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Breathplay, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Violence, Oviposition, Pining, Size Difference, Switching, Weird Biology, Xenophilia, in which shiro has Big Teeth and keith never stood a chance, sort of. i don't know what u call it with like...fish...people..., what a good versatile tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 04:10:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19191592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: Keith gulps. “You’re very — big,” he ekes out. “Bigger than any Mer or Cetea I’ve ever seen.”Shiro tilts his head. “That — scares you?”“Shouldn’t I be scared?” Keith whispers. The snapper lies forgotten. Shiro swims closer, and Keith is seized by the absurd urge to reach out and touch him, to run his hands over the rippling muscle and black tail. He could. His fingers itch to. He thinks he’s losing his mind.





	Strange Affinities

**Author's Note:**

> get it. afFINities. ha. funny. i'll be here all night
> 
> this fic is inspired by andy/@diococky's lovely art [here](https://twitter.com/pejaposarambi/status/1134689740450664449) :D
> 
> as always, you can find me & more sheith & shenanigans on twitter [@saltyshiro](https://twitter.com/saltyshiro), thank you for reading~!
> 
> EDIT: now with [MORE art](https://twitter.com/pejaposarambi/status/1162927879048613889) by the WONDERFUL @diococky/@pejaposarambi!!! ily andy

He should have known better than to swim so close to shore.

This is Keith’s first thought when the iron hook pierces through his right shoulder in a searing burst of white-bright pain.

His second thought is, why did the tastiest fish have to be in the reef?

But there are no fish here — none but him. The water is still and silent save for his thrashing and bubbling screeches of rage and agony as the hook hauls him up, up, _up._ He can hear something above, see the shadowed underside of a boat, or a ship; he doesn’t know the difference nor care, they both mean humans; they both mean danger, and death, or worse.

He doesn’t know what they used to lure him here; doesn’t know how they managed to imitate the exact scent of a shoal of snapper, but they did, and he was foolish enough to fall for it. Panic floods him as the surface draws nearer and nearer, a thin blue veil beyond which there is no return.

Keith stops screaming and starts breathing in rapid gulps, his gills fluttering madly to take in as much oxygen as he can, while he still can. He stops thrashing because it makes the hook hurt more, and the water around him is clouded with tendrils of wicked red, even redder than his flopping tail or fins. He does not have time to scan the area for sharks before his head breaks the surface, and his vision is flooded with sunlight.

Keith starts struggling again in a blind panic, blinking rapidly and gasping for breath, the air above acrid and tinged with poisonous smoke from the boat. Two faces peer down at him, unfamiliar, human, with hair all over their jaws and jowls, and yellowed blunt teeth, and skin pocked with sunspots. They’re too far up to attack, and besides, Keith is suspended, flailing like a mad thing half in the water, half out, dizzy from lack of air and blood loss. His right shoulder _burns._

The humans laugh. He does not understand their words, but they point at his dark red tail, at the scarlet scales trailing up along his hips and cheekbones, at his frilled red ears, and nod approvingly, and Keith is ten times more afraid than he was before. Their voices are grating, like the anchors that drag over the sea floor, and catch and scrape and groan unpleasantly. Keith hides from those sounds, but now, there is nowhere to flee to.

He will have to fight, instead. He lets himself hang, trying to relax, trying to conserve air, to lull the humans into thinking he is a hurt and broken thing. They mutter conspiratorially to each other and raise the hook higher, higher.

As soon as he is close enough, Keith strikes. He lunges upward for one of the men, tugs him down just enough that he loses his balance with a shout and toppled overboard. The other grabs for Keith and Keith fastens his teeth into the man’s forearm, tearing through strange cloth and grimacing as his mouth fills with hot blood, too warm and metallic, unfamiliar and nauseating.

He makes the mistake of leaving the man’s other hand free. The next second there’s a hand in his hair, wrenching his head away. Keith spits and retches while the man howls curses at him and then he’s reaching for his hip, for the shiny metal machine strapped there, and Keith fights the hook in earnest, reaching up to pull on the iron. It does not give, but the chain there does, and Keith fumbles with it and the man lifts the metal, which has a sort of tube like a pipe, aimed directly between Keith’s eyes. The metal clicks, loud, menacing. Keith pulls at the chain harder, forces his hand between the links and — something gives.

The metal machine explodes with sound and smoke as Keith falls into the sea, the hook still in his shoulder, the untied chain dangling from the boat in front of the shouting man with an ugly wound on his arm. Keith sees the other man swimming towards him, in that clumsy human way, and makes to escape — but he’s sinking.

With slow horror, he realizes the iron is a deadweight. The hook is half the size of his torso in its entirety, he cannot possibly pull it free. Keith screams underwater. The boat looms. The human swims closer, before, without warning, he freezes.

The humans scream a word he knows. They scream, _Shark!_

But as Keith, dragged ever downwards by the hook, looks upward at the huge black and white tail cutting through the waves, following the scent of blood, _his blood,_ Keith knows it is far worse than a shark.

Sharks are rather dimwitted. They are easily frightened off and they prefer fish and seals to Mer, for they become confused when Mer speak to them — their languages are similar enough. But this is no shark.

The massive black tail _slams_ into the side of the ship, rocking it dangerously. The human in the water splashes around. Something underwater _growls,_ and then — a clawed hand pulls the human under, and snaps his neck with little effort. His body floats to the surface, disdainfully discarded, not even worth a bite.

The Cetea are different beasts entirely — intelligent and cruel, much, much larger than a Mer, and with few qualms about eating whatever they catch, regardless of how much it screams.

Keith is going to die. Perhaps, he thinks, this will be a better death then a slow one by infection — he cannot move far with the hook lodged firmly in his flesh. Still, he refuses to die helpless and resigned. He glares up at the shadow as it swims closer. The boat is moving away, with haste. The dead man’s body floats, abandoned.

The Cetea looms over him, its skin pale save for where silvery-black scales cradle its strong jaw. Its eyes are the same color, fixed on him, but the swaying fringe of its hair is silver-white. It is covered in scars, extending down to its long black fins, notched at the edges from old battles.

One scar slices over the bridge of its nose, and — it’s missing an arm. This is not comforting — it could still crush Keith in one hand. He bares his teeth at the Cetea, which is circling, not yet attacking. He isn’t surprised. They like to play with their food.

The Cetea pauses, tilts its head. If these were less terrifying circumstances, Keith might think it — _he?_ — was very handsome. But the ocean is filled with pretty, deadly things. Jellyfish are pretty, even ethereal in their otherworldly beauty, sometimes. It does not make their stings any less fatal.

The Cetea opens his mouth. It is lined with sharp white teeth, each as big as Keith’s thumb. He shrinks back, and hisses, puffing up his fins in warning, though he knows he is losing too much blood, and could hardly fight this thing unarmed even if he was not so badly injured.

But it does not bite him. The Cetea furrows its brow and, in a lilting, halting manner, _speaks._ “Help,” it says, gesturing to Keith, to the hook.

Keith gapes at it — no, definitely a _him,_ his voice is deep and rasping as if from lack of use, reverberating through the currents, through Keith’s trembling body curled among the sand and corals.

The Cetea have their own language, but this one speaks Mer.

“Help,” he repeats, and taps his own right shoulder. “Okay.”

_Okay?!_

Keith stares frantically. “No, not okay!” he gasps as the Cetea drifts closer. The approaching apex predator stops, as if startled, and drops his hand. “Don’t — don’t touch me.”

The Cetea frowns at him, like Keith is being unreasonable, here. _“Yes,”_ he says, firmly. “Hurt. Help...help you.”

Keith tries to wriggle away, but it’s no use. Strong fingers close at his middle, holding tight in a cage around his narrow waist. He screams, and the Cetea shushes him. “Let go!” Keith shrieks.

The Cetea winces at his strident tones. “Quiet.”

“No! No _quiet!_ Not until you let go of me!”

_“Quiet._ Or you will die.”

Keith’s jaw snaps shut, terrified. The fingers around him squeeze, though not enough to even bruise him, though they could do far more. Then the Cetea adds, “Shiro.”

Keith whimpers. “Wh-what?”

“I,” the Cetea says, “am Shiro.” He begins to swim, faster than most Mer could manage, with strong pumps of his broad tail, and holds Keith close to his chest. Keith lasts about ten seconds before the dark spots and shock overtakes him, and he goes limp.

*

Keith awakes in a soft bed of kelp and seagrass, tucked deep in an unfamiliar cave. He lifts his head blearily, and then pauses as he realizes his right shoulder is free of the hook. He stares at it. There’s a mass of bandages there, a mixture of kelp and some salve that warms the torn skin under it, but the hook is nowhere to be found, and the pain is manageable. Experimentally, he sits up, and flexes his tail, stiff and sore from being still so long. There’s a twinge in his shoulder when he pushes off from the kelp bed to examine his surroundings, swimming slowly along the edge of the rocky wall.

The cavern is huge, with a high ceiling that extends beyond the surface of the water, and Keith gulps as he remembers the events previous. This is a Cetea’s lair. Except – they don’t usually have lairs, and when they do, they aren’t empty. Cetea travel in family pods, and hunt with those families, too. Unlike Mer, they are nomadic; they don’t build villages and cities and castles. Yet, the further Keith explores, the more he sees that this Cetea has been here for a while.

There are shelves carved out of the stone, laden with polished shells and corals, as well as some jars filled not with organs and macabre trophies as Keith first assumed, but with rather underwhelming brined fish, snails, clams, mussels, and seaweed. Keith knew the smaller, noisier, meaner Cetea with blue-gray tails and chattering laughter ate such things, but the big black and white Cetea like Shiro prey upon things with blood. Or so he thought.

The cavern is not as large as he previously expected, but after exploring below the water and finding little more than the kelp bed, stashed treasures, and food for later, his curiosity gets the best of him and he drifts to the surface, enjoying his regained buoyancy. He hesitates before peeking his head up, and smacks a hand over his mouth to stifle his curse.

Strung up on the bare rocks, with the light of the water’s surface dancing in eerie silver-blue veins over it, is a bleached human skeleton. It is wearing a hat, tilted at a jaunty, mocking angle. One of its teeth glints gold in the shifting light.

“He was...a bad...man.”

Keith whirls, heart in his throat. Impossibly, Shiro is there behind him, half of his torso above the water – Cetea do not have gills; they breathe air above the water. Keith has never understood it. Nor does he understand how a creature as huge as Shiro snuck up on him so silently.

Keith keeps low in the water, his gills submerged and fluttering faster as Shiro begins to circle him, much closer than when they first met, for with the Cetea in it, the cavern no longer feels so large. Keith says nothing, just watches him, ears flattening and lips pulling back from his chattering teeth.

“Rest,” Shiro murmurs, his gaze never leaving Keith. “Hurt. Need rest.”

Keith’s eyes narrow. “I can swim,” he retorts, his voice hissing and dry, as it is out of water. Shiro’s voice sounds the same.

Shiro’s eyes narrow back, and it’s much more frightening when he does it. “Not far,” he counters. “Not back – home.”

Keith sucks in a panicked breath, his gills nearly closing. “How do you – _you know where I live?_ You know where the Mer, where my clan –” He stops short. Shiro is frowning. He looks – sad.

“Okay,” Shiro says, quietly. “I do not…” He furrows his brow, clearly thinking. “Hunt!” he exclaims after a moment, too loud, and Keith shrinks further down, until it is only a pair of frightened violet eyes above the rippling surface. Shiro’s massive shoulders slump. “I do not hunt Mer,” he finishes, softer.

Keith darts below the water, but Shiro follows him. He keeps a distance between them, at least. “Why do you speak Mer?” Keith demands. “Where did you learn it?”

Shiro blinks. “A – friend,” he replies.

Keith huffs, and darts away, but Shiro is remarkably fast for his size. “Where is this friend?”

Shiro blinks again, slower. “Dead,” he replies, then amends, “killed.”

Keith grimaces. “Did you kill them?”

Unexpectedly, Shiro recoils. He flashes his wicked teeth, briefly, his expression of reflexive disgust and anger impossible to miss. _“No,”_ he growls viciously.

Keith’s fins curl in on themselves. “Oh,” he croaks. “I’m – sorry.”

Shiro slumps again, and keeps a greater distance between them. “Okay,” he mumbles, though he does not look okay. Then he points, up to the skeleton hanging on the rocks far above. “He – did it. I kill _him.”_

“Oh,” Keith repeats, faintly. “As – as revenge, you mean?”

Shiro nods grimly. “Revenge,” he repeats, with a little too much relish. He seems to realize this a second later, and clears his throat, ducking his head again sheepishly. “I – bring food. For you. Eat.”

Keith eyes him. “What ‘food’ did you bring?”

Shiro makes a noise almost like a laugh, but more awkward, like he hasn’t really laughed before. “Fish,” he says. He points again, this time not to the skeleton but down to a woven basket sitting near the kelp bed. Keith can see scales inside it, and smell –

He’s swimming down to the basket, stomach grumbling, before Shiro can add, “snapper.”

Keith is halfway through the basket before the thought even occurs to him that Shiro could have poisoned the fish, but quickly decides that makes no sense when the Cetea could probably devour him in one bite. This thought does dim his appetite slightly, however the Cetea in question does not look particularly murderous, at the moment, and considering he isn’t a human, Keith isn’t too frightened by the skeletal decor.

He gnaws on a snapper head and says to Shiro, “You caught all these? How?”

“Traps,” Shiro says. He’s still swimming around in lazy circles, and it’s difficult not to watch him. His tail is thick with muscle, shining black on top and pearl-white below, with mesmerizing curves of the colors against each other. His fins are long and broad, like paddles, with nicks along the edges of them. Seeing him in his entirety, Keith understands why the humans cried “shark” – a single black dorsal fin, standing taller than the length of Keith’s entire torso, rises from where his scarred pale skin turns to smooth black.

Shiro notices him looking, and makes a questioning sound.

Keith coughs, setting aside the snapper. “I’ve never actually seen, a, er —”

Shiro says a strange word that sounds like “skaana.”

“Skana?” Keith echoes.

“Ska’ana,” Shiro corrects, makes the _kaa_ softer. “Never?”

Keith shakes his head. “Only heard stories, and seen art.”

Shiro’s eyes widen. “Art,” he repeats. “Of — me?”

“Not of you, specifically!” Keith stammers. “But...of your kind. Many Mer artists are, um. Inspired.”

Shiro hums, still questioning.

Keith gulps. “You’re very — _big,”_ he ekes out. “Bigger than any Mer or Cetea I’ve ever seen.”

Shiro tilts his head. “That — scares you?”

“Shouldn’t I be scared?” Keith whispers. The snapper lies forgotten. Shiro swims closer, and Keith is seized by the absurd urge to reach out and touch him, to run his hands over the rippling muscle and black tail. He could. His fingers itch to. He thinks he’s losing his mind. Perhaps the snapper was poisoned after all.

Shiro leans down, so that they are nearly nose to nose. Keith almost goes cross-eyed. “No,” Shiro tells him, and delicately pats Keith’s nose with a broad fingertip before retreating. “Okay. Okay?”

Keith stares. “Okay,” he manages. Shiro’s skin is so very warm. He’s certain his nose must be as red as his scales.

Shiro grunts in approval. “Eat. Rest. Home — when healed. I come back...soon.”

Keith watches him swim away, out of the narrow mouth of the cavern, and into the night sea. He could flee. He could try to swim all the way home before the Cetea returns.

But the snapper is delicious, the kelp bed is cozy, his shoulder aches, and he cannot get those curious silver eyes out of his head, so Keith stays.

*

Shiro does not eat him.

He returns with the scent of blood clinging to his skin, but it is from elephant seal, not Mer. He generously gives Keith the kelp bed and sleeps curled among the silt on the seafloor, though there looks to be a rock jabbing into his dorsal fin that cannot be comfortable.

Keith falls asleep with shocking ease, considering there’s a creature capable of taking down an elephant seal sleeping beside him. His dreams are all shifting water-light and warm touches. He awakes blushing, and is not wholly certain why.

Shiro changes his bandages carefully. His fingers are so big that they ought to be clumsy, but he never once makes a mistake, and shows Keith how to spread the salve over the wound and replace the bandages periodically.

“What does the salve do?” Keith asks. It is thick and brown-green and smells of some sort of anemone.

“Helps pain,” Shiro replies, in that halting way of his. “Helps — scar less.”

Keith peers at it. “Have you used it on yourself?”

Shiro pulls away. “Good, now. Cover.”

Keith rebandages it dutifully, and tries the question again. Shiro gives him a look. “What?” Keith frowns at him. “Have you?”

Shiro turns away from him. The Cetea is ignoring him. Keith scowls and folds his arms despite his shoulder’s protest. “Hey.”

Shiro does not turn around, but busies himself with the jars. Keith bites his lip. The Cetea’s back is covered in scars. They don’t look like battle wounds. They look like — punishment inflicted.

Keith swallows. “What’s your favorite kind of fish?”

Slowly, Shiro’s tense shoulders lower. His now-familiar thoughtful hum fills the water. “Mm...shark,” he says. “Shark liver.”

Keith’s mouth opens and closes like, well, a fish.

When Shiro turns around, he’s smirking. “Hmm?”

“What kind of shark?” Keith manages.

Shiro’s smirk widens, showing his teeth. “Great white,” he murmurs.

Keith gawks at him for several more moments before Shiro giggles, his mischievous eyes turning mirthful. Keith almost gasps in relief. “Oh, thank the tides, you weren’t serious.”

Shiro huffs. He’s even more handsome when amused. “I like tuna.”

“Tuna is good,” Keith agrees weakly. “Though...hard to catch, they’re big.”

“Not for me.” Shiro shakes his head. “But — shark, too. I _was_ serious.”

Keith splutters in disbelief.

(Shiro offers to catch him a shark, and Keith politely declines.)

*

Shiro returns with tuna, the next day. Keith shows him how his mother taught him to eat it, slicing off thin slabs of the yellowtail and rolling them up in little sachets of seaweed. Shiro finds this fascinating, and hovers beside Keith, watching intently. However, when he does eat his half of the tuna, he does so in one gulp. Keith almost chokes. Almost.

Shiro shrugs. “Sorry.”

Keith is admiring Shiro’s collection of shells and Shiro is playing with a very lost crab when Keith asks, “Where is your pod?”

Shiro abruptly forgets the crab. His tail lashes, agitated, mouth setting in a thin line. “Gone.”

“Where?” Keith hesitates. “Did humans…”

Shiro nods to Keith’s injured shoulder. “They take – us. Catch, us.” He reaches out, brushes his fingertips over Keith’s tail so fast Keith thinks he might have imagined it. “Take Mer, for scales.”

Keith’s tail coils up warily. “You don’t have scales. Why do they take Cetea?”

Shiro looks frustrated, and says a string of clicking sounds Keith cannot understand at all. His hand curls into a fist, and Keith backs away a little, before Shiro sighs, “For – _show.”_

Keith sucks in a breath. “You mean...as, as entertainment?”

Shiro nods. “Prisoners,” he whispers, and closes his eyes. “Lose our minds in cages.”

Keith starts forward, but stops short. “Did they...they caught you, didn’t they?”

Shiro’s eyes flicker open, and there is a mad light within them, then, a fierce desperation. “Escaped,” he says. “Friend helped. Then, he –” He grits his teeth.

“Then they killed him,” Keith finishes. Shiro nods, wordless. “I’m sorry,” Keith offers, looking up at him, and carefully laying a hand over Shiro’s tail, where white meets black. Shiro jolts in surprise, but does not move away. “You saved my life,” he says. “I never said thank you. Thank you.”

Shiro peers down at him, looking rather flustered. “Is – okay,” he mumbles. “No ‘thank you’ needed.”

“Still,” Keith insists. “I appreciate it. And I’m sorry I hissed at you. I...I owe you a great debt.”

Shiro shakes his head firmly. “No debt,” he says. “Is okay.” He nods to the tuna. “Eat more. Rest. Take you home – tomorrow.”

“So soon?” Keith asks.

Shiro eyes him oddly. “Yes,” he says. “Should go home. To...family.”

_And what about you?_ Keith doesn’t say, though he looks around the bare, empty cave, and thinks Shiro’s life here must be a lonely one.

*

It isn’t until Shiro has brought him to the edge of Mer territory that Keith realizes, “I never told you my name!”

Shiro chuckles. “No,” he agrees. “Is okay. Don’t need.”

“I’m Keith,” Keith says. “Of the Mora clan.”

_“Keith.”_ Shiro hums, pleased. “Be safe, Keith. No boats. No humans.”

“You, too,” Keith says. “Something tells me I’m not the only Mer you’ve helped — be careful, Shiro. You’re a good Ska’ana. I’m glad you got free, and...and I hope you find your pod again, someday.”

Shiro smiles, small and sad. “Thank you,” he says, and nudges Keith forward gently with a long fin. “Go, now, home.”

But Keith lingers. “Will I ever see you again?”

Shiro shakes his head. “Go,” he repeats, and pushes Keith forward with the current from his tail as he swims away, a dark dot growing smaller and smaller in the deep blue.

*

Keith is received home with hugs and tears. His mother and father tug him close and curl their tails tight around his, petting his hair and fretting over his injured shoulder. His father accepts Keith’s story of escaping the humans and tending to his wounds with a salve he once saw Shay make, but his mother finds him outside after dinner and says, “Shay has never made that salve.”

“No,” Keith admits, staring out into the abyssal plain beyond the continental shelf of his family’s reef. He’s never been good at lying, especially not to his mother. “She hasn’t.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Then who did?”

Keith frowns. “Ma, what’s the biggest fish you’ve ever seen?”

Krolia pauses. She settles beside him in the sand. “I saw a blue whale, once,” she murmurs. “Biggest there is.”

“Not a whale,” Keith says. “No, I mean — the ones with teeth.”

Krolia looks at him, searching. “Ah,” she says, and tilts her head, considering. “They are beautiful creatures, the Ska’ana. Beautiful, but dangerous. Do you know what the name of their people means, my son?”

Keith shakes his head.

“It means _killer,”_ she murmurs. Keith glances at her sharply. “It also means _spirit,_ and _power.”_

“This one wasn’t,” Keith mutters. “A killer, I mean.”

Krolia’s frilled violet fins rustle among the sand, disturbing it to fill the water with fine grains. Her tail is twice as long as Keith’s, a dark iridescent purple marked with lavender stripes all down the back. “The humans have a different name for them,” she adds. _“Orcinus_ – orca.”

“What does that mean?”

Her mouth curls. “Orcus is a human god. A god of the underworld – a master of death.”

Keith looks down at his hands. He thinks of how smooth and warm Shiro was beneath his palm. He thinks of the skeleton and its single gold tooth. He thinks of the silver-pink latticework of scars across Shiro’s back.

“I’m not dead,” Keith says.

Krolia does not reproach him. She just nods, and leans over to kiss his forehead. “No,” she murmurs. “You are not.”

They sit together on the edge of the shallows, staring into the deep beyond.

*

Months pass. Keith swims back to the reef where Shiro first found him again and again – though he is careful to avoid any boats, hooks, or the scent of snapper – but he finds only irritable starfish, poky sea urchins, and suspicious barracuda.

He tells no one but his mother what happened, and even she does not know the whole truth of it. She does not know that some nights, Keith awakes in a cold sweat, the phantom sensation of sharp teeth around his waist clinging to his flesh like a memory, though Shiro never bit him. She does not know that in those dreams, Keith is not afraid, but arches into the touch, welcomes the hot pulse of Shiro’s tongue over his squirming tail, and further, _within –_

Keith tries, and fails miserably, to forget these dreams.

He is returning with his father from a nearby reef, their woven baskets filled with mussels and whelk, when his father says, “Given any thought to who you’re going to court this year, Keith?”

Keith nearly drops his basket. “Um.”

His father laughs good-naturedly. “Is that a yes?”

“I,” Keith starts. “Er — I just thought —”

“Your mother and I are worried about you, you know,” he adds. “Not that there's anything wrong about not pairing off, but, well, we want you to be happy, son. If there’s anything we can do —”

Half to distract himself from the fantasies of black fins and silver eyes, Keith blurts the first name that comes to mind. “Romelle!”

His father blinks. _“Romelle?_ From the Altean clan?”

“Uh-huh,” Keith croaks. “Sure. Yes. Yep.”

“Oh, well, that’s good to hear!” His father beams. “She seems like a very sweet Mer. Very, ah, bubbly.” He pats Keith awkwardly on the shoulder. “Your mother and I will be meeting with Alfor before the season begins, we can mention you’d like to meet with her, if you want.”

“Great.” Keith watches a large and ugly stargazer fish heap sand onto its own face from where it’s buried nearby, and wishes he could follow suit. “Thanks, Pa.”

*

Out of desperation, he returns not to the reef, but to Shiro’s cave – only to find it completely empty of Cetea and knick-knacks, and quite occupied by some territorial whitetip sharks. Keith scares them off with a few firm boops to the nose, but it’s a jarring experience nonetheless.

Shiro’s vanished, and big though he may be, the ocean is infinitely vast. Keith returns home dejected, and when his father announces that Alfor approved a private meeting between Keith and Romelle before the season proper begins, Keith forces a smile, and ignores his mother’s knowing look.

*

“This is nice.”

Keith glances over at Romelle, who is floating on her back beside him, looking up at the night sky. “Yes,” he agrees. “It is.”

She purses her lips and turns her head to look at him, long blonde hair swaying in the dark water around her. “But I didn’t think a ‘private meeting before the mating season frenzy’ meant ‘admiring the cosmos,’ Keith.”

Keith flushes and makes a noncommittal grunt. Romelle rolls over, and darts underwater, to his other side. Keith slowly lets himself dip underwater ‘til they’re facing each other. “Sorry,” Keith says.

She tilts her head. “Don’t be sorry. We can just stargaze. If you want.”

Her scales are pink, several shades lighter and creamier than his own, with a blue-green sheen of iridescence. Theirs would be a very beautiful combination, surely. But his heart’s not in it.

That hasn’t mattered in the past, though to be fair he’s only participated in two seasons previous, and those had been with more distant tropical clans, far from home, with partners and offspring he will probably never meet – unlike the Altean clan, who are less than half a day’s swim away from the Mora, making it quite likely that a union with any of them would become something more than a casual fling.

(Mer only mate every two years, unless they have a life partner, in which case they do as they wish.)

Keith wonders how often Ska’ana mate, they’re much bigger, so it must happen only rarely. They must be pent-up.

It is a highly intrusive thought, and some of his discontent must show on his face, because Romelle is frowning at him.

“Keith, what is it?” she asks. “You’ve been in more seasons than I – is something wrong?”

“Not with you, no, no,” Keith sighs. “I just –”

She folds her arms, lower lip jutting out. The bioluminescent teal markings on her cheekbones, typical of the Altean clan, flare indignantly. _“Keith._ You _know_ you can tell me if it’s my face or something, right?”

Keith snorts, shaking his head. “What – no! You have a very nice face. And, you know.” He gestures vaguely at her breast, which is hardly hidden under the sheer golden wrap she’s selected for the occasion. Romelle laughs at him, and Keith’s ears burn. “I just – I don’t…”

“It’s okay if you don’t wanna court me,” she says. “We can just get it over with. That’s okay, too. You wanna keep the eggs, or would you rather I –”

_“Wait,”_ Keith exclaims, wringing his hands. “That’s not – I mean, honestly, I thought I could do this, but, well, I think...something might be wrong with me –”

They are abruptly interrupted by the loudest Mer Keith has ever heard screeching, “Romelle! The princess is hurt! Quick, forget your date, the healers need you!”

Romelle and Keith whirl towards the commotion – three Mer are approaching, all Altean. The loud one has an electric blue tail, flanked by a worried-looking Mer with a large golden tail and a much smaller Mer with a pale green tail. Romelle swims towards them, and after some hesitation, so does Keith. “What do you mean?” Romelle demands. “What happened to her?”

“She got caught in one of those huge new nets the humans have been dragging over the seabed, behind their big scary ships!” the golden-tail replies.

Romelle covers her mouth in horror. _“Caught!_ Did she get out, is she still there now?!”

“And, you’ll never believe this –” the blue-tail starts.

“ – a Cetea found her before we did,” the green-tail cuts in. Keith stiffens.

_“No!”_ Romelle exclaims. “A _Cetea?! Here?”_

“What kind,” Keith says, barely a whisper.

The golden-tail gives him an odd look. “Big,” he says, “black and white, and missing an arm…”

Keith swallows, his pulse pounding. “What did it do to her?” Romelle gasps.

“That’s the thing,” the green-tail says, “before it could get to her, it got stuck in the net, completely tangled up in there. She got free, because we heard her calls for help in time, but she’s hurt her arm and her fins are all torn up –”

“Where’s the net?” Keith snaps. The Alteans look at him askance. He repeats himself, louder.

Blue-tail folds his arms. “It was a mile or so west, near the Weblum Reef, that’s why we were – where _is_ he going?”

Keith is already out of earshot, diving beneath the waves and swimming west as fast as his fins will carry him.

*

The net is easy to find. It leaves a swathe of destruction on the seabed behind it, and as Keith follows it, he begins to hear something crying out, a haunting high-pitched call like nothing he’s ever heard before. He swims faster, and the further he swims, the more the call starts to sound like a hopeless plea, a single voice crying out, unanswered.

When Keith starts to see the sand still adrift from where the net disturbed it, he starts to call back. He cannot imitate the sounds, but he calls in Mer, _I hear you, I hear you,_ and then, once he can see the silhouette of the net in the murky distance, _Shiro!_

There is a moment of terrifying silence, and then Keith sees something massive move in the net, a weak rolling motion that threatens to disturb the entire structure, but is not quite enough to tear it off course. “Shiro!” Keith screams, and he sees a flash of white, and then Shiro calls back, higher and frantic.

Keith is glad he brought his blade with him, even if Romelle had teased him for it, because there is no way he could cut the net with his teeth. The ropes are thick and coated in some kind of hardened resin. His blade has never failed him thus far, but considering not even Cetea teeth could break free...he shakes himself. He needs to focus.

Shiro stares at him with wild eyes through the gaps, thoroughly ensnared. He makes the sound again, tail thrashing, worsening the situation. The Cetea doesn’t seem to be fully... _there._ Keith calls his name again, softer, but he just makes the same wordless sound, an echo, again and again until Keith’s chest aches just to hear it.

“Okay,” Keith says as he nears Shiro, alarmed at the steady speed of the net, pulled by a ship that looks so far away – it is a long, long net. Keith lifts a calming hand, and Shiro stares at him, glassy and distant. “It’s okay, I’m here, I just need you to – hold still, please, I don’t want to hurt you.”

The Cetea makes the sound again, ragged this time, as if wounded, but he holds as still as he can when Keith starts sawing away at the ropes around his tail, where his fins are caught fast. When his tail flukes are free, Shiro shivers violently and gasps, _“Keith,”_ and begins to struggle with his upper half in earnest.

“Yes, yes, it’s me, stop that, you’re making it worse,” Keith pleads, darting back and forth from Shiro’s bound arm to his chest, where the rope has begun to chafe and cut into the straining flesh. “I need you to –”

“Here,” Shiro groans, his head lolling to the side, exposing the red rope-burn across his throat. Keith looks in horror – it’s digging into his windpipe; no wonder he’s been making those wretched noises. “Can’t – breathe –” Keith swears and wriggles between the ropes to reach his neck. Shiro’s breaths are shallow and labored, and his lips look blue at the edges. Keith pulls the rope away from Shiro’s skin as far as he can and starts cutting.

The blade is making headway, slowly but surely. Keith braces himself on Shiro’s shoulder, curled between the ropes and his chest, dragging the blade back and forth, back and forth. Shiro is burning under him, chest heaving in uneven rises and falls. Keith can feel his heart. It feels like the thunder that rocks the sea on stormy summer nights.

“Almost,” Keith promises, seeing the way Shiro’s eyes have begun to roll back, his mouth opening and closing in useless streams of bubbles. The ship is still moving; Keith swears it’s gotten faster. He cannot look at the rest of the net, where fish of every sort are trapped and wriggling, or else long dead. He cannot look at the metal hook from which the net hangs, the hook that is _lifting,_ away from the seabed and towards the surface –

The rope over the Cetea’s neck snaps apart on the edge of Keith’s blade, and Shiro surges free with a guttural snarl, the force knocking Keith upwards with him as he breaches. Dazed, Keith chokes and sputters at the surface as Shiro gulps in great lungfuls of air, the color returning to his skin immediately.

The wild light, however, does not leave his eyes, and when he turns on Keith his pupils swallow up the silver irises, leaving only thin silver rings. His mouth is open, still taking in air, and his sharp teeth are all on display. His jaws look wider than before, or maybe that’s just the fear churning in Keith’s belly.

Keith sheathes his blade, lifting both hands in surrender. “Shiro,” he whispers, unsteady, “it’s me, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

Shiro pants, faster and faster, pupils narrowing to slits in an instant, and that’s all the warning Keith gets before he dives at Keith.

Keith’s scream is cut off in the resounding _smack_ of Shiro’s tail and body hitting the water. Keith should have been crushed under him – but he isn’t. Instead, he’s shielded under the trembling curve of Shiro’s body, and under the water, with the net receding in the distance, forgotten, everything is quiet. Shiro’s trembling intensifies, and when Keith touches him, the Cetea whimpers, small and broken.

“Hey,” Keith whispers, shaken but glad all his bones are intact. “Shiro. Look at me.”

Slowly, he does. His expression is wrecked. “Sorry,” Shiro whispers. “I didn’t – mean to – hurt –”

“You didn’t,” Keith assures. “It’s okay.”

“Okay,” Shiro whispers back, soft and frightened, and Keith can see the marks the ropes left on his body, and all the scars besides, and anger bubbles up in him. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s darting forward and throwing his arms around Shiro’s neck – they’re just long enough to wrap around and embrace him there – and burying his face in Shiro’s throat, where his gills would be. Shiro makes a confused, breathy sound.

“Okay,” Keith says, firmer. “I won’t let them hurt you, Shiro.”

A long moment passes before Shiro moves, nuzzling into Keith’s hair. Then he murmurs, “Told you – to stay away from nets.”

Keith knows he’s going to be alright, then, and laughs, a little hysterical. “And I told you to be careful.”

Shiro hums, and strokes Keith’s hip with a single finger that feels like an entire palm. “Thank you,” he says. “You saved me.”

“You, first,” Keith huffs, squeezing his eyes shut, indulging in a little nuzzle of his own before pulling away – or trying to. Shiro keeps him close with the single finger, the set of his mouth uncertain but hopeful. “What is it?” Keith asks gently.

“Don’t – don’t leave?” Shiro eyes him shyly. “I. I don’t want to be alone, right now.”

Keith’s heart stutters. “Okay,” he agrees, a bit too fast. He lays a hand on the silver scales over Shiro’s jaw. “Do you have a new cave? I went to the old one, but…”

Shiro’s eyes light up. “You looked for me?”

“Um. Did – did I say that?” Keith clears his throat. “Yes. But there were just feisty sharks.”

“Sharks!” Shiro peers at him closely. “Did they attack you?”

Keith giggles and swats at him. He’s been patting at Keith’s torso with his finger, and it is – a strange and ticklish sensation, to say the least. “They were just whitetips, don’t worry, Shiro. Besides, I have a knife.”

Shiro nods approvingly. “Knife is good.” He smiles, close-mouthed. His lips look soft.

Keith smiles back. “You’ve been practicing Mer, haven’t you?”

“Just a little,” Shiro says, but he’s visibly preening. “Is it good?”

“Very.” Shiro’s smile widens. “Been talking to other Mer, have you?”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “No,” he says. “Books – tablets, with the language, I found. I wanted – to talk with you, better.”

“You are,” Keith whispers. He has no name for the feeling in his belly, like a flock of flying fish, leaping and diving.

“Yes.” Shiro watches him closely. Again, he says, “You looked for me.”

“I missed you,” Keith admits. Shiro’s eyes widen, and a bright pink blush spreads over the scar bridging his nose, and outwards. “I’ll – I’ll stay, Shiro. As long as you need me.”

Shiro swallows. “You don’t owe me,” he starts.

“This isn’t about owing,” Keith replies.

The line between Shiro’s brows smooths over. “No,” he agrees, and releases Keith. “Follow,” he murmurs. “New cave is better – want you to see it.”

“Can’t wait,” Keith replies, and swims parallel to his powerful tail, admiring the way he moves, the way the very ocean parts before him, bowing to its king.

*

By the time they reach Shiro’s new cave, he’s gone twitchy and quiet again, and Keith is more interested in keeping an eye on him than in admiring the grand cavern. It’s a smaller cave than the first one, but with shiny black rock, and a layer of polished pebbles and sea glass at the bottom.

The Cetea’s bed is a shallow crater in the sand and pebbles, lined with a thick layer of seagrass. Shiro drifts over to it, settling in the middle, tucking his tail in so that he’s folded in a half-moon shape.

“It’s beautiful,” Keith says, and though the shining black stone is striking, and the sea glass turns the water into a hundred shifting shades of color, he isn’t talking about the cave.

Shiro hums, his gaze unfocused. Somehow, curled in the seagrass bed, he looks small. Keith swims over to him, and tentatively settles down beside him. “Is this okay?” he asks.

In reply, Shiro’s hand closes around his middle, and Keith finds himself dragged to lay on the Cetea’s chest, his head tucked between Shiro’s pectorals. Keith blinks rapidly. Shiro’s hum turns distinctly satisfied, and his hand is heavy on Keith’s back, encompassing his entire upper body. “Yes,” Shiro says, his eyes half-lidded. “Good Mer.”

Keith does not shudder at that, not at all. Instead he pokes Shiro’s nipple. “Hush.”

Shiro hums again, without protest. He looks up at the ceiling. Keith looks at the raised tissue of a nearby scar, and at the corded tendons in Shiro’s strong neck, visible even when he is relaxed like this.

“You asked,” Shiro murmurs, “what happened to my pod.”

“You don’t have to,” Keith starts.

“Want to. Someone — should know.” Shiro closes his eyes fully. “It was — years ago. The Ska’ana, we are a matriarchal people, and that day — she knew something was wrong, our mother, but...we did not listen.” He shivers under Keith. “They came for us at — sundown. Put us all in nets, then cages, with...bad water, still water, too cold. My sister — died in the night. Little brother died, before we reached shore. Mother...died later. Slowly, of...of a broken heart, when she saw what they did to us. To her children.”

Keith puts his arms around Shiro’s neck again, because he does not know what else to do. Shiro sighs. “I — do not like to kill, not for…fun. For sport. But they made us. The humans have...arenas. Made us mad in cages, then — made us fight each other.”

Keith’s arms tighten around him. “Your arm,” he whispers. “Did they…”

“My own brother. Kuron,” Shiro says, pained. “Tore it off. But — I think I killed him. Cannot...remember. Do not _want_ to remember. I — I was not me.” He opens his eyes at looks at Keith, beseeching. “I do not want to be that, Keith.”

“You aren’t,” Keith says. “I know you aren’t.”

Shiro looks at him. “Wondered,” he muses, “for long time, why it was me, who escaped. Why not another? Why not — my friend?” His hand squeezes Keith, just a little. “Think — maybe it was so I could save you. If so — that is good, to me. You are good to me, Keith.”

“Hush,” Keith says again, voice thick, a lump in his throat though his gills are working perfectly. “You should rest. I can go hunt, bring back fish, maybe even tuna —”

Shiro keeps his hand over Keith stubbornly. “No,” he mumbles, “stay…”

“Okay.” Keith snuggles into his chest; he hardly needs further convincing. “I’m here.”

“Yes,” Shiro sighs happily, and drifts off, his breaths like the steady waves lapping at the rocks.

*

Keith dreams of kissing Shiro.

In the dream, somehow it works. It shouldn’t, considering Shiro’s tongue is easily as big as his head, but it does, and it’s wet and hot and perfect, though not as perfect as the heat delving into him, surrounding him, splitting him open and raw and easy.

Alright, so maybe he dreams of slightly more than just kissing Shiro.

And maybe that’s why, when he wakes up with a disoriented groan, he finds he’s been rubbing off over Shiro’s taut belly. Mortified, Keith stills, afraid to move even a single muscle, but it’s too late. The damage has been done, Shiro’s already awaking, or maybe he’s been half awake for awhile, and Keith is still held in place by Shiro’s damned hand, so there’s nothing he can do except watch with dread as the Cetea’s eyes open.

Shiro yawns, unhurried, before he, too, goes still. His sleepy eyes brighten to full alertness, and he lifts his head. “...Keith?”

Keith lets out a piteous whine and tries to squirm away, then stills again, realizing that moving makes it _so much worse._ His slit is open, and it’s not closing anytime soon, considering he’s also hard, and _really,_ Keith should have foreseen the consequences of sleeping against a very warm, very handsome source of friction just before the mating season.

But he foresaw nothing, and now Shiro is trying to sit up, but he’s still not moving his hand, and Keith is struggling against it, friction be damned, because maybe if he swims away they can both forget this ever happened.

_“Stop,”_ Shiro says, and it sounds like a command.

Keith stops, and forces himself to look Shiro in the eyes, though he knows his face is bright red and his slit is _still opening,_ and this time more than fluid is emerging. Keith doesn’t look. Can’t.

Under Shiro’s scrutiny, Keith feels even smaller than he truly is in comparison to the supine Cetea. A tiny, clumsy, rutting Mer who couldn’t even bring himself to mate properly, because all he could think of was a creature more likely to tear him limb from limb than fuck him.

Or so he thought.

“Keith,” Shiro murmurs, and he doesn’t — he doesn’t _sound_ mocking, nor repulsed. He sounds — confused, yes, but also _awed._ “Are you —”

Keith has to hang his head, then. “I’m sorry,” he gasps. “It’s — our breeding season, I forgot, it’s just — instinct…”

Shiro shifts up against him. Keith has to bite down on his own fist to stifle the sound he makes. “Instinct,” Shiro repeats, the word a low drawl, and he does sound mocking, now. “So — it was _instinct_ to say my name while dreaming, hm?”

Keith shakes his head frantically. “I didn’t — that’s not —”

“Be honest,” Shiro warns. “If you are — if it is just ‘instinct’ — I let you go. If not…”

“It’s not, it’s not,” Keith gasps in a humiliated rush, shuddering at the press of Shiro’s thumb at the small of his back. “I — want you. I shouldn’t, but —”

_“Shouldn’t...”_ Shiro scoffs. “Who says?” His tail flexes under Keith. “Show me.”

Keith whimpers. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I should just go, before —”

Shiro grasps his waist and _rolls,_ flipping them in a single fluid movement, towering over Keith as his back hits the seagrass. “Do you _want_ to go?” Shiro asks. His teeth gleam. He looks hungry. Keith’s breath clicks to a halt and dies in his throat.

“N-no,” he admits, his tail lashing in anticipation when Shiro leans down over him, greedy gaze tracing over Keith’s tense body, ending at the opening seam at the center of the top of his tail. “No,” Keith says again, more certain. “I don’t want to go — anywhere else —”

“Good,” Shiro murmurs, a fingertip sliding down Keith’s abdomen, tracing the curve of his hip and rubbing at the top of his slit, where something violet-pink is unfurling, about as thick and long as Shiro’s forefinger. “Because you aren’t going anywhere.”

Keith groans; Shiro’s fingertip delves into his slit, hardly penetration, just a tease of pressure, but it’s dizzying how wide Shiro can spread him with only that. At the thought, Keith’s cock curls out fully, the wide, blunt tip dark and wet, wetter than water. Shiro coos at it, the hunger in his eyes darkening.

“Want to taste,” he tells Keith. “Now.”

_“Yes,”_ Keith manages, looking away from those teeth and hoping Shiro means taste in the other way.

He does, but nothing could have prepared Keith for Shiro’s tongue laving over his cock, taking his time, making it sloppy and somehow even harder, keeping each lick loose and flat until Keith starts letting out breathy whimpers, and then Shiro curls his tongue around it, sucking and stroking his tongue over, around, _everywhere._ His tongue is so big Keith can feel every bump on it, textured and slippery over his cock.

Keith has never been so loud; he’s also never had his cock sucked by _a fucking sea monster,_ so, that’s something.

He’s so lost in the feeling that it takes him a moment to realize Shiro has backed off, and is gawking at his now quite full slit. Keith blinks blearily and looks down with him.

“There are — two,” Shiro says, equal parts puzzled and delighted.

Keith tilts his head. He supposes it does look like a second cock, from this angle. But, “You — you’ve never done this with a Mer, have you?”

Shiro peers at him. “No! Wait — you thought —”

“That you seduced every wayward Mer?” Keith finishes. “Uh. Maybe. You don’t?”

Shiro frowns at him. “No seducing,” he reproaches. His face falls. “You thought I just — do this?”

“I wasn’t sure,” Keith mumbles. “You’re...very good at it.”

Shiro barks out a short laugh. “Ah — no. I don’t — _Keith._ You are the only Mer I — have felt this for.”

“This,” Keith echoes, faintly. “What is ‘this’?”

Instead of answering, Shiro runs his fingers down the length of Keith’s tail, ghosting over his fins, marveling at the texture of scale. “Do you want,” he starts, and furrows his brow. “To...what...is the word.”

“Fuck?” Keith suggests.

Shiro’s lips quirk. “That.”

“Yes, but, you, I, um,” Keith gestures vaguely. His brain is not at its peak, at the moment. “Big,” he finishes.

Unswayed, Shiro licks almost daintily at his cock, and rubs his finger along the other length, which is more flexible, thinner and curling under Shiro’s steady rubbing. “Could you put these inside me?” Shiro muses, his eyes bright and speculative. Keith’s hips jerk uselessly. “Would that work?”

“I — nnnghh,” Keith gasps, and flails at him in vague affirmation. “Get — go on your back, again.”

To his surprise, Shiro does, though not before getting a few more licks in. Keith wriggles away with a hiss and climbs over the Cetea’s prone body, his breath shortening as he sees the matching slit opening near the top of the thick black and white tail. It, like the rest of Shiro, is big, though not as long nor wide as it would be on a Mer, proportionally.

“Can I,” Keith starts, but Shiro is already nodding, and Keith wastes no time in settling fully atop him, pressing his lips to that smooth, shining flesh, feeling the power of Shiro’s body at his behest. When he kisses his way up to the slit, he’s briefly overwhelmed, and his cock twitches hard, harder when he sees the slight protrusion at the top of the slit, a bruised pink speckled black, like Shiro’s tongue. It’s about the size of Keith’s fist, at the moment, but Keith has a feeling its full size is much larger.

For now, though, it remains manageable, and when Keith opens his mouth to suckle over the mound, Shiro groans loud beneath him in encouragement. Keith flattens his tongue, laps and works his way down to lick within Shiro’s slit, which makes his body spasm in shock. Keith lifts his head. “Okay?”

Shiro nods and groans, the swollen protrusion a little harder, a little larger, but not by much. “Do it,” he says. “With – both, Keith, please.”

Keith whimpers – with a Mer, it is rarely possible to penetrate with both, especially not without preparation, but as he lines up over the Cetea’s slit, he sees very quickly that it’s going to be almost too easy. Shiro lifts his tail, just so, and Keith shifts forward, holding both lengths at the base with his hand and moaning when they both slide in, clutched in tight muscle, clenching and fluttering.

Shiro shudders, and Keith realizes he’s already started thrusting, his tail wrapped as tight around Shiro’s tail as it can be, anchoring him, chasing the strange sensation, driven by the urge to breed, though even his body knows this is very different than past seasons.

“How – can you feel –” Keith starts, and Shiro is nodding, jerky and frantic. “Is it — is it good, are you —”

Shiro’s mouth falls open as Keith strokes the protrusion again, and feels it swelling larger, making the space his lengths are filling even tighter. The shrinking space must feel even better for the Cetea, because he’s making bitten off moans, louder each time Keith’s cock curls against his vent, smearing globules of fluid as it goes, making everything wet and messy.

Keith stretches, reaches up to tug on Shiro’s nipples, not knowing if it will do anything. In reply, Shiro bucks under him, forcing Keith’s cock deeper, alongside the second length, which is already swelling at the base, secreting even more fluid than his cock, warm and tingling. Shiro’s eyes are wide. “Keith,” he gasps, “what — I feel —”

Keith bites down on the meat of Shiro’s pectoral as the first of his eggs leaves his body, fattening the base of his ovipositor and pushed down the length by his deep thrusts. Shiro twists under him, letting out a startled squeak that is almost funny from such a large creature when the egg pops free, making the space even smaller. The hot channel of his body tightens and convulses around Keith’s cock and ovipositor, but the second egg is already coming, and Keith snarls as it’s released.

“Ah, Keith, _Keith,”_ Shiro pants, a roiling wave under him, “how many —”

Keith’s tail squeezes tighter as three eggs release in quick succession. “As — as many as you want,” he gasps back.

“Fill me,” Shiro replies instantly, and they both moan as Keith spasms with a snarled sort of shriek and comes with his cock, flooding Shiro’s slit with syrupy fluid, thicker than the water around them and spilling out in translucent splatters which cling to Shiro’s bucking tail and _then —_

_“What,”_ Keith yelps, as the protrusion at the top of the Cetea’s slit fattens and pops abruptly free, nearly smacking Keith in the face, continuing to harden and lengthen, longer than his torso and twice as thick as his _forearm._ Keith’s cock jerks again in a second wave of release at the sight of Shiro’s cock, and two final eggs squeeze their way inside, though Shiro’s slit was clearly not meant for this purpose, and his cock crushes against Keith’s from the inside. Its surface is slippery and veined, hotter than the rest of his skin, and the curling tip leaks sticky white.

Keith gawks at it, and at Shiro, whose hand is thrown over his face as if embarrassed. This is confirmed a second later when he gasps, “S-sorry – feels too good, I –”

Keith’s tail loosens a little, his fins stroking over Shiro’s body wherever they can reach as his ovipositor curls and retracts, and his cock softens slowly in the sticky grip of Shiro’s slit, now puffy and flushed with blood like his cock. “Shiro,” Keith whispers, pressing a hesitant kiss to the Cetea’s cock, savoring the bitter-salt taste, like familiar saltwater but stronger, earthier. “Have you – have you _ever_ done this before, with _anyone_ – Mer or Cetea?”

Shiro’s chest rises and falls, faster, bubbles escaping from his parted lips. “No,” he grits out.

“Never?” Keith repeats, a little teasing now, despite the very intimidating sight before him. Of course Shiro’s cock is big, but – seeing it is far different than dreaming it. He wriggles a little, and Shiro groans, and the tip of his cock curls, as if seeking what it is meant to sink into.

Keith obliges, fitting his mouth with difficulty over the tip, which is more slender and tapered to a point. Keith pushes his tongue against the hole there, which dribbles out more fluid, nothing like a Mer’s, which is sweet and light and sticky. This is strong, musky, and it makes Keith throb within though his cock is beginning to withdraw. It’s a terrible idea, probably, _but..._

Shiro’s jaw works, desperately. “Keith, please,” he groans, eyes rolling back when Keith tries to force more of the squirming length into his mouth, so far he swears he can feel it brush his damn gills. “You – will hurt yourself –”

Keith pulls off with a hiss, staring down at the Cetea as he tugs his cock free of Shiro’s slit. Shiro makes a wounded sound, louder when Keith plunges his hand in immediately after, shaping around the mass of jelly-soft eggs cradled in rippling heat. Shiro’s tail thrashes, but he sits up, watching with a dazed expression as the contractions of his body push the eggs out, send them floating and slowly dissolving into the seawater.

Shiro’s dazed look turns panicky and he tries to grab one with a gasp. It’s so tiny that it looks like a perfectly round orange pebble in his palm. Keith giggles at him, the intensity of the moment lost.

“They’re unfertilized,” he laughs. “Usually we just eat them, after.”

Shiro splutters at him. “You – _ahhh.”_

There are more eggs. Keith curls up on Shiro’s tail, watching the way Shiro arches and gasps as each egg is pushed free – he thinks he could do this all day. But eventually, all the eggs are gone, and Shiro lies trembling under him, his swollen cock still bobbing forlornly in the water, twitching when Keith runs his hands over it in helpless fascination.

“Keith,” Shiro grunts when Keith starts kissing it again, then, louder, _“Keith!”_

Keith lifts his head, eyes innocent. “What?”

Shiro bites his lip with those sharp, sharp teeth. “You need – to stop,” he warns. “Can’t –”

Keith pouts at him. He isn’t sure _where_ this attitude is coming from, but he’s guessing it has something to do with his seasonally raging hormones and deeply confused yet deeply aroused body. “You _can’t?”_ he coos. “You can’t pretend I’m another Cetea, begging to be bred, begging for your cock to split me open –”

Shiro’s mouth falls open. “Oh, fuck – please, that’s not – nn…”

Keith shifts up along his body, looping his tail around Shiro’s swelling cock, working the slippery length through tight, scaled coils. Shiro’s growl rumbles through him, and Keith squeezes tighter, with as much strength as he dares, stroking him off like Shiro might do with his hand, and _oh,_ that is quite a mental image.

On each stroke, Shiro’s cock rubs and catches on Keith’s slit and he’s certain he’s never wanted it this badly, impossible though it might be, because Shiro is – _so much._ In every way, he makes Keith feel like no one else ever has, and it should be frightening, it should be strange, but Keith just _wants._

“Keith,” Shiro says again, and his voice sounds _different,_ darker and guttural, and then his hand is clamping down around Keith, trapping his entire body tight against Shiro’s against his cock, which is pressed to Keith’s cheek like this. He turns his head as much as he is able, licking at it messy and earnest, and Shiro snarls. Keith falters, having half a mind to be wary as he feels Shiro’s grip tighten ‘til it is like iron; unbreakable, unyielding.

Keith’s eyes widen. Shiro surges upwards, crushing Keith to him.

Keith’s startled cry is lost in a veil of bubbles; he is blinded and deafened by the sudden upwards rush, and he does not struggle because he knows even if he tried, Shiro would hold him fast, besides, he is disoriented with no concept of where Shiro is taking him except _up –_

His head breaks the surface of the water.

Keith gasps, gills flaring open and face still mashed against Shiro’s belly and cock, Shiro’s palm keeping him there. “Sh – iro,” Keith pants, trying to lift his head, sucking in air uselessly. The Cetea has breached, and floats on his back on the rolling waves with Keith held atop him, tail flopping and hands clawing at Shiro’s rising and falling chest. “Can’t – _breathe –”_

Shiro watches him, eyes narrowed, pupils blown out black. “Don’t fight it,” he murmurs, petting the back of Keith’s neck with his thumb, tenderly stroking his gills. Keith chokes, too sensitive, and Shiro rumbles under him. “Relax,” Shiro urges, and his hand is moving, lifting Keith up so that his limp, jerking body rests more fully over his chest, and – Keith’s eyes fly wide as the wriggling tip of Shiro’s cock finds his open, leaking slit, and rubs over it, as if questioning.

Keith buries his face in Shiro’s chest and whimpers, lifting his hips, his lungs burning and vision spotting, body lax from lack of oxygen. Shiro shushes him. “Okay?” he whispers, brushing the wet hair out of Keith’s eyes with his fingertip. Keith looks blearily up at him. “Do you – trust me?”

Maybe he’s the stupidest fish in the ocean for this, but he nods, halting, and gasps, _“Yes,”_ and Shiro’s cock pushes into him as his vision starts to spot and darken at the edges.

Keith’s not relaxed, then.

Shiro’s cock may have a tapering girth, but it’s already stretching him so wide, and Keith throws back his head with a hissing moan, because it feels – _so different_ from any Mer’s, not just bigger but hotter, burning inside him and filling the space where his body expects eggs to be, already. There are no eggs, only more cock, fattening and pulsing in him, rubbing over his spent cock until the friction coaxes it back into awakening.

Keith’s tail kicks out as the sensation tips over into discomfort, but he can barely feel it over the pain in his chest as he runs out of air. The two hurts almost – cancel each other out, overwhelming him, leaving him numb and warm and cold and shaking all over, so that he can feel little more than intense pressure, in his aching slit and on his back as Shiro pushes him down, forcing him to take more of his cock.

It’s a shock when water flows through his gills, and Keith inhales, still above water, partly, but with his gills just below the surface. Shiro has submerged himself just enough to give Keith water, and Keith turns his head to look up at him, blinking the tears he didn’t realize were there out of his eyes.

“Too much?” Shiro murmurs, soft and concerned.

Keith blinks again, and twists to peer down between them, where they are joined. He can’t stop his moan – somehow, he’s got at least half of the Cetea’s cock stuffed inside him, and he can feel it moving, curling, stroking deeper than anything ever has. _“Oh,”_ he gasps. “Wow.”

Shiro hums in agreement, eyes never leaving Keith, dark and fond. “You know,” he says, “I don’t want to pretend you are another Cetea. You are not. You are Keith. My Keith. I like you – like this. As...as you are.”

_“Your_ Keith?” Keith repeats, dumbfounded.

Shiro’s face falls. He sinks a little further into the water. “Or – not,” he adds, lamely. “I – am sorry. I misunderstood, I...of course, you just needed to, to breed with _something,_ and I was there, that is –”

Keith pauses, and sucks in a sharp rush of saltwater. “Wait – Shiro, no, _no,_ that isn’t –”

“It is okay, Keith,” Shiro says gently, though his eyes are sad. “I said you do not owe me and I meant it. You belong with your family, with other Mer –”

Keith kisses him.

Really, it’s a remarkable feat, and Shiro’s cock tugs at his stretched slit as Keith jolts forward to tug Shiro’s jaw closer, but it shuts Shiro up. Keith parts his lips and licks, pleased to find Shiro’s lips are as soft as he imagined, and Shiro makes a low sound in the back of his throat and then they’re sinking, slowly sinking back into the sea, tails entwined as best they can be. Shiro holds Keith to him so that they’re suspended vertically, Keith clinging to him, Shiro’s head bowed to kiss him better. Once, the edge of a tooth catches on Keith’s lip, and Shiro’s tongue makes an appearance, only to lick the beaded blood carefully away.

Keith doesn’t want to stop kissing him, and as he does, he bounces on Shiro’s cock, for though he’s not willing to risk taking the whole length, it’s good, like this, and from Shiro’s moans and sighs against his mouth, it’s good for him, too. Keith’s cock finds the space somehow to slip out, awhile in, and Shiro immediately moves his thumb to it, flicking at the tip and delicately squishing it between his thumb and muscled stomach until Keith is whining and convulsing, unable to remember the last time he felt so _good,_ if he ever has. He tells this to Shiro in messy streams of words like the messy streams from his cock and the Cetea hums, satisfied, tells him he feels perfect, taking it so well, and kisses him again.

When Shiro’s cock starts to pulse and wriggle more powerfully and his swaying tail gains more purpose in its thrusting movements, the Cetea breaks away from the kiss and, to Keith’s growing alarm, starts to mouth at his shoulder. Keith’s nails dig into Shiro’s chest. “Don’t bite me,” he warns, trying and failing to keep still when he feels the first stinging graze of teeth. “Shiro – Shiro, _don’t – !”_

But Shiro’s not biting him. He’s opening his mouth and licking in long broad laps of his huge tongue at the healed scar on Keith’s shoulder, and when he catches Keith’s eye, he murmurs, “I’m so glad you are safe,” and gathers Keith closer, bowing his body over him, protective. Keith wraps his arms around Shiro’s middle as far as he can, and cries out when Shiro comes like that, cock pumping out neither eggs nor fluid but seed, with such heat and volume Keith swears he can feel it burn in the back of his throat. But Keith’s body takes it, rounding out as it would with eggs, and when Shiro’s cock slowly withdraws, there’s no damage done, save for a serious case of absolute exhaustion.

Keith slumps against him, leaving kisses all over his chest and neck, sweetly tracing the scars there. He has aches in places he didn’t know existed, but bliss settles heavy and warm under his skin, and quite literally in his belly. He hasn’t yet decided whether or not to let his slit close without releasing Shiro’s seed first – the thought that he could just keep it there for as long as he likes is tempting.

Shiro drags his tongue tenderly over the side of Keith’s neck, and Keith tilts his head obligingly. “You are so good,” he murmurs. “Amazing, Keith.”

Keith bumps his nose against Shiro’s chin. _“Your_ amazing Keith,” he replies, and Shiro’s eyes widen adorably. “If you want,” Keith adds. “But, you should know I do want that. I like you, Shiro. A lot. Strange though it may be.”

A relieved smile slowly spreads across Shiro’s face. “I like you, too!” he exclaims, and presses a messy, smacking kiss to Keith’s mouth, made messier when Keith laughs. “It does not feel that strange to say it,” Shiro adds, when they have both finished laughing and kissing, and gently nuzzles against Keith’s forehead.

“No,” Keith agrees, drifting with him in the quiet of the open ocean, “not so strange after all.”


End file.
